


Flecked

by peanootzramano



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Selfcest, Two-Rivers production, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-12-26 09:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18280559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanootzramano/pseuds/peanootzramano
Summary: Jeremy Heere sucks at following instructions carefully. As a result things get... totally flecked, yo. It's the musical with a distinct change that alters pretty much everything. Enjoy!





	1. Prolgue

**Author's Note:**

> "...perhaps Michael was right - he was being scammed super fucking weirdly."

What a complete and utter waste of time.

On paper, it had sounded so effortless; Just a quick, impersonal rendezvous at the back of a dusty old Payless. 

Jeremy’s energetic fingertips had drummed at the bobbled lining of his well-worn jeans, and any nails which had not been bitten into uneven stubs lay caked in clay from a rather uneventful art class. He should have been delving head-first into the simplistic, hastily-written outlines he had drawn up for his paper on Michael Bay’s most monumental fuck ups rather than investing every cent saved up for Michael’s birthday on a certifiable miracle. Such hope - such promise - would be nothing more than a temporary bandaid over the stain of his life; but it was a flicker of something palpable. Something indescribable that made Jeremy’s throat itch pleasantly.

Serrated eyes had pierced through his sternum when he had handled over his gathered cash, yellowing teeth pulled back into a sinister grin and slurred words telling Jeremy he had to take his new pill with a mouthful of Mountain Dew or Dr. Pepper or some other sugar-saturated beverage he was too bewildered to commit to memory. 

One minute he had torn erratic fingertips through fragile plastic, rolled his sticky tongue against a monochromatic capsule and forced it down into his throat with little more than a swig of awful-tasting discounted Sierra Mist and a sharp intake full of anticipation. The taste bore down like glass across the back of his molars - but what else could he expect? With bargain prices came bargain beverages. 

The next, his spine was twisted into a grotesque ampersand of horrific convutions. His nails had left unintelligible autographs across the filthy floor of the food court, veins thickening into bulbous lavender flumes to encapsulate the downpour of acid wreaking havoc against his insides. There were shards punctured just beneath his diaphragm - he could feel them - his eyes rolling back into his head with every sharp intake of breath because his skin was absolutely splitting the fuck open.

Distantly, he could hear the less than empathetic chortle of a voice yelling obnoxiously, “Dude, the freak's freakin’ out!”

There was an entire orchestra of chaos and merciless exertion, and after the amber embers had dwindled all that was left was a gargantuan overhaul of… nothingness. Not a single graphic entity in sight, no invisible tassels embroidered around his wrists to encourage him into a state of deliberate compliance. Just a fugue state of complete and confusion coupled with the sensation of multiple eyes prickling away at his trembling shoulders.

The pain left just as abruptly as it arrived, stripping him bare and leaving him with less than an acceptable amount of change in his pocket. His wrist had cramped considerably from pawing at the grotty tile beneath his feet and his temples shuddered in rapid succession with the realization that perhaps he should've gone through Rich directly. 

Or perhaps Michael was right - he was being scammed super fucking weirdly. 

After all, what had he really expected? That Rich Goranski of all people had this magical elixir that would iron out all of his (very noticable) flaws? 600 dollars for a capsule filled to the brim with sugar water, promise and copious quantities of naivety for that added spice. There was no wonderful all-encompassing cure for being a loser, geek or whatever label his peers had cellotaped across Jeremy's forehead that week.

When he smacked his lips together he could still taste lubricated plastic. Sierra Mist glued his gums together. His limbs wobbled when he stood upright, knocking his bow-legged frame so far out of joint he may as well have been click-creaking all the way home. 

He had gone to bed that night with little communication from his dull-minded father. Had locked himself into a world of full of misery and questionable connectivity. He massaged circles around the swell of his cock until the ache in his wrist had loosened and his frustrated tears had dried on translucent cheeks and he didn't have to remember how badly he wanted to be someone better. Fuck, his stomach hurt.

What a complete and utter waste of time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knitted brows protrude comically from atop a smothered collar, wide cerulean eyes scanning the space in front of him as one arm lays suspended through the sleeve of his beloved striped tee. Fractured gears ticking uncomfortably. And he just s t a r e s.

Jeremy Heere has never been blessed with the ability to lure himself into a particularly impenetrable sleep, yet there is something downright sadistic about the metallic rattling of his phone's shrill alarm penetrating the otherwise motionless air. His bones rattle with the weight of a lingering hormone-induced fog, taut stomach caked in the leftover residue milked from him by nimble, sticky fingers. 

He reaches blindly for the sanctuary of his cellphone, bitten cuticles unlocking his screen to silence the repetitive alarm perforating his eardrums, and tries to will his tangled-like-thickets lashes to separate. 

Distantly, he can still taste the saccharine heat of Jake Dillinger's swollen cock pushing past his distended lips until he had moaned like a bitch in heat and begged for more; scents of stale cologne and sharp sweat burning up his nostrils from an occupied locker room. 

His head is full of fantasies so enchanting that Jeremy almost misses the time stamped proudly at the top of his screen.

10.32.

As though undiluted ice has ensnared his weakened ankles, Jeremy finds himself erected upright with the sheer intensity of white-hot panic. Oxygen flees his lips in quick, frightened spurts, an open palm embroidering across his chest in an attempt to satiate the rapid hammering taking place within. 

He could have sworn he had left his daily alarm untouched…

Gliding his toes inside whatever pair of discarded jeans situated closest to him, buried amidst old Playboy magazines and mismatched socks, he wills himself toward a certain alertness. 

The towering tease of time tickles at his toes, gnaws perfectly imperfect divots in his bones. He wrenches his jeans up against his swollen hips and raises an arm above his head to sniff against his armpit. The scent is tart, ripe, but nothing a quick spritz of stale deodorant can't conceal. 

It's a good thing his Ma left after all, right? How else would Jeremy inherit a fuckload of masculine care products his Dad is far too emotional to use anymore.

His lungs start itching considerably when he thinks of her. Like always. Infectious. 

He pushes his thoughts toward that ever accelerating clock, shaking his head to jostle free the droplets of moisture clinging to fair lashes, and distantly craves that small turquoise canister often pressed between Michael's lips. 

“Oh m-man… I'm gonna be so… late!”

“You're welcome.”

Knitted brows protrude comically from atop a smothered collar, wide cerulean eyes scanning the space in front of him as one arm lays suspended through the sleeve of his beloved striped tee. Fractured gears ticking uncomfortably. And he just s t a r e s.

Dripping like freshly poured silk against Jeremy's mirror, incomprehensibly long limbs and a pelvis far too broad for such a petite, spidery frame, perches a stranger so jolting that Jeremy forgets how to filter oxygen through the pipework of ribcage.

Those pathetically protestable proportions aren't at all unfamiliar. Jeremy has spent an entire lifetime figuring out how to successfully manoeuvre around those acute bones and crooked thumbs. The bewildering stretch of those hips have always been an absolute bitch to conceal adequately. Such a small, fracturable chest can ordinarily only be protected underneath large, knitted cardigans. And those uneven lips, ordinarily chapped beyond repair, are used to stringing together indecipherable sentences full of inaccuracy and uncertainty. 

It's him. It's Jeremy.

Only it isn't.

Because this Jeremy is comprised solely of unacceptable quantities of arrogance, a rather potent dosage which vandalizes his veins in bewitching lazuli lights. His lips are pinched into a sensationally serpentine smirk. Strength blesses every ribbon of sinew rippled throughout this imposter's preposterously straight spine. 

He is a vision in onyx leather and opalescent cashmere, mousy ringlets removed from his temples into an ultra too-trendy-for-Heere fade which elevates hidden cheekbones. Those cherry-blossom pimples splattered across Jeremy's porcelain flesh have faded into nothingness; too pure.

And his freckles have transformed into an array of fractals - reflective jewels stolen from a mirror.

“Wh-what the hell?!” Jeremy shrieks through the bark lodged inside his throat, toppling back onto his bed.

That grotesque imitation of himself, hideously warped into something dreadfully immaculate, looming over him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chuckling darkly to himself - molasses and candied liquorice - the Squip glides a hand up down his physique. His tongue slithers playfully across the gleam of his glistening teeth; utterly and completely despicable. 
> 
> “Are you blind? I am the coolest you that you'll ever get.”

“You shouldn't curse, Jeremy. It's unbecoming.”

Even his voice has shifted, elevated decibels smothered beneath the roll of his tongue; not a single sticky syllable in sight. Unkempt electricity prickles inside those chaotic pupils, shocking Jeremy through to his fingertips from exposure alone.

He can taste blood contaminate the back of his throat. It scratches, coats and maims his palette while his nose burns.

The world surrounding him is nothing short of a technicolor blurr, his chest creaking with the pressure of keeping his breaths evenly stacked. He raps his knuckles against the centre of his chest. Dampened lashes attempt to focus on the discoloured crimson splotches peppered on the peeling wallpaper beside this… _thing_ 's head; leftover souvenirs from that afternoon that he and Michael decided to paint their own pokeballs.

“O-okay,” Jeremy tries, brainwaves concentrated like bullet-holes. “This… t-this is just a, um, dream. Just a f-fucked up dream. And I'm uh.. I'm going to wake up s-soon and it's gonna be f-fine.”

“Right. And might I say what a _fine_ job you have done waking yourself up this morning, Jeremy!”

“Hey - th-that's not my fault!” Jeremy screeches, arms flailing around widly in front of him despite the entanglement of his clothing. “I-I had an, um, alarm-”

“Which I deactivated.”

Jeremy's faultless counterpart slicks his tongue flush to the roof of his mouth, draws it back with a sharp tsk of disapproval, and despite the carnival in his eyes he is swiping a pointed fingertip across the dust spritzed on the windowsill and grimacing.

“No one arrives at school on time anymore, Jeremy. At least, not those who matter.”

Despite the villainous fog staining his vision, Jeremy wills himself upright. He stares at his polished counterpart in utmost awe. His perfectly elevated spine makes him seem untouchable. His skin is smoother than butter and every bit as tantalizing. And his smile could illuminate every hidden crevice scattered throughout Jeremy's shrouded existence, ignite even the hidden pockets buried deep inside that he is far too ashamed to reveal to anyone - even Michael.

“Who - what - are you?” Jeremy croaks.

“That should be fairly obvious by now. I'm your Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor; your Squip.”

Something feral t-t-ticks between the thorns of Jeremy's bladed ribcage, blooms into an inescapable reverberation which makes his toes go completely numb. Is this real?

“M-My… B-But Rich said your job was to, uh, help _m-me_ be cool!”

Chuckling darkly to himself - molasses and candied liquorice - the Squip glides a hand up down his physique. His tongue slithers playfully across the gleam of his glistening teeth; utterly and completely despicable.

“Are you blind? I _am_ the coolest you that you'll _ever_ get.”

“B-But, um… Rich said that his Squip is inside his head or.. o-or his blood or.. um somethi-”

“Rich? His Squip is pathetic!” The Squip counters, venom piquing his tone. His impenetrable shadow curls over Jeremy like a cloak of ink, otherworldly eyes penetrating his vocal chords until he can think to do nothing but whimper in obedience. “Moses is incompetent at best. He has certain limitations that I do not.”

Jeremy cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Jeremy. Can't you see? I don't have to instruct you on how to be better. I am better. I have experiences that you could only dream of.”

The Squip perches beside Jeremy with very little infleunce to his surroundings, a compression of minuscule weight and an incandescence which seems to swallow all the air from the room, but very little more. He is fibreglass and crystal far too angular for Jeremy's clumsy fingertips to celebrate.

“I can show you everything you can - and will - be. You have so much potential, Jeremy. You just have to let me fix you.”

Wild amber flames lick wildly at Jeremy's inflamed insides, flood his senses with an overwhelming sense of promise. Perhaps he can finally gloss over feverish scars left in his soul from his mother's uncharacteristic departure?

He can still taste stale Sierra on the back of his tongue. It dilutes well with the flavour of hope.

“Y-you really think you can? Um, f-fix me, I mean?”

Even the way the Squip rolls his eyes is in a perfectly formed circle.

“As long as you obey my rules, yes.” Soft thumbs ghost a finite trail across Jeremy's hiccuping jawline.

So many excruciatingly beautiful flaws to erase and eradicate. And so little time.

“Now, your first task is to get yourself to school. Being late by an hour or two is a social spectacle. Anything which exceeds that is lame.”

Without another moment of influence, Jeremy pushes trembling bird-bone ankles into a pair of well-used converse, opting to sink his excess laces into the gaps left behind by an awkward instep rather than fumble with their discoloured entanglement, and adjusts his shirt back in place across a petite torso.

“Wait!” Jeremy gasps, tattered backpack tossed haphazardly over slumping shoulders. “Um, h-how will I explain that… I h-have a twin?”

The Squip simply smirks, thumbs smoothing along the crease of his stylized leather jacket to keep things perfectly in place; flawless.

“Don't worry about that, Jeremy. I won't be seen unless I choose to be.”

“Well, wh-where will you g-go in the, uh, meantime?”

The Squip clicks his fingers once, sharp decibels lost to the sudden shriek which pulls from Jeremy's dampened lips as his wrist positively ignites.

A large, prominent prism of glittering mirror has torn its away inside his skin, shimmering with the same bewitching majesty as The Squip's thousand-watt smile. Jeremy digs into the centre of his shard with one outrageously curious fingertip and watches in surprise as his digit drips into a realm of liquified platinum.

_Jeremy. Poking around in here won't get you to class any quicker._

And as though he were being influenced forward - stark magnetic pull and shifting gravity - he is disappearing out the door.


End file.
